Jolly Holiday
by nicknack22
Summary: John, Sherlock, Mycroft, and Greg on holiday together. Fun, flirtation, fluff, and bickering ensue. Johnlock. Mystrade.
1. Negotiations

"Remind me again, _why_ we are doing this," Sherlock questioned, disdain dripping from each syllable.

He was sitting in what John commonly referred to as his "thinking pose:" fingers steepled, face impassive, reclining in _his_ chair with eyes staring into the middle distance. He was not quite in his mind palace (John could tell the difference, largely because explorations of the mind palace involved much more movement and a banishment from the room), but neither was he fully present in the flat.

Sherlock seemed to be on the verge of whining again. Frankly, John had had enough of that. This would be the fourth time that they had discussed this topic in the past twenty-four hours alone. It was becoming _tedious_, not to mention annoying. Sherlock's ennui coupled with his sulking was not much appreciated by John, who was currently bustling about the sitting room with some urgency, stacking suitcases by the door.

"Because," he began firmly before scanning the room around him in apparent consternation, "Have you seen the sunblock? I know I bought sunblock." He turned about, searching all the surfaces within reach, and eventually facing Sherlock again. His detective's face was wholly impassive face and anything but innocent. John addressed his partner, suspiciously this time, "You didn't _commandeer_ it for an experiment did you? Because if you get burnt to a crisp, and we both know that you will. I am not taking responsibility. You're on your own."

Sherlock sighed exasperatedly, rolling his eyes, "Of _course_ I didn't take it, John. What would I do with sunblock?" He appeared genuinely puzzled, scrunched nose and all. _As if I'm out of my head to suggest that he'd use sunblock in an experiment_, John thought, _I mean, after all, it's not like Sherlock uses random objects for experiments on a fairly regular, you know, hourly basis, or anything like that. Not like there isn't currently some strange __thing__ fermenting on the bloody kitchen table that __somehow__ required eyeliner. I mean, it's not like there's a __human__ spleen__ sitting right bloody next to my strawberry jam in the refrigerator._ He communicated all of this to Sherlock with a very pointed glare that the consulting detective ignored in favor of dramatically narrowing his eyes and crossing his arms, making a mental note to have Mrs. Hudson completely clean out the kitchen while they were away. _Serve him right_, he sniffed, knowing full well that it would be a complete mess within two hours of getting home regardless of their landlady's efforts. Honestly, it wouldn't really be home without Sherlock's mess giving the place character.

Turning his attention back to Sherlock, fresh images of the "experiments" that colonized every surface of the flat in mind, John was anything but convinced by his partner's denial. "You sure about that, are you?"

Sherlock did not deign to reply, which might as well have been an admission of guilt. Disregarding the question, he opted to roll his eyes instead, "You still have yet to explain _why_ you are determined that we take part in this ridiculous errand."

John placed his hands firmly on his hips; they had had this conversation ten times at least. "First of all, it's not a bloody _errand_, it's a _holiday_. Second, because your brother invited us." John braced himself for the next round in this debate. _Three, two, one—_

Sherlock harrumphed loudly (right on cue), and John sighed, walking over to where the detective reclined in his customary chair. Clear eyes, which today held more green in them than any other color, glanced up at John briefly, reminding him of a cold sea. John smirked at Sherlock's attempts to feign disinterest and continue being stroppy. _Not likely_.

Truth be told, when John had received the invitation from Mycroft he had been more than a little suspicious. Since when did Mycroft invite the two of them to tag along on a "holiday?" Sherlock had skipped suspicious and gone straight to conspiracy theory. That was the point at which John rang Greg and asked after the motivations behind this trip. The DI had quite honestly seemed puzzled, "Look, mate," he assured John good-naturedly, "as far as I know he's totally honest about the whole thing. No ulterior motives. He's downright chipper about it. It's a bit scary…reckon we could all do with a holiday though…" John couldn't argue with that logic and he had signed the two of them up. Greg was right; Mycroft had seemed rather elated by their positive response. John figured that the stress of recent events may have resulted in some sort of emotional breakdown with symptoms of excessive emotivity and magnanimousness. Confirmation complete, John had thus begun the process of coaxing, bribing, tricking, and convincing Sherlock to get on board with the plan. He was obviously still engaged in that endeavor…

"Because it will be _relaxing_," he suggested pointedly, looming over Sherlock. It was a nice change for John to loom, empowering even; Sherlock was usually towering over him when it came to height.

"You mean _dull_," Sherlock rejoined, every inch a five year old who knew that his mother's "maybe" quite clearly meant "no," and unwilling to accept that for one moment. _At least not without a fight. _

"I _mean_ that we could do with a holiday," John countered firmly, getting another glance from Sherlock, with the slightest hint of guilt, peeping from beneath his lashes, "It's been a long year. We could do with a rest." _Right_, he acknowledged, _resting might not be the best method of getting him to agree. You'd think I'd learned that the first 150 times we've had this argument._

"Besides," he added, innocently, "I've read up on the island. Lots of unsolved mysteries. Bound to be plenty to do…" Sherlock's eyes narrowed with suspicion, and John tried not laugh as the consulting detective attempted to deduce the seriousness of John's claims. Before he could open his mouth to make a pronouncement about the blogger's ostensible bribery and calculated falsehoods, John placed his hands on the arms of Sherlock's chair. He leaned in until they were nose to nose. Whatever the consulting detective had been about to say died in his throat as all of his brain power was redirected to other more tangential arenas. Say what you would about John Watson's methods, he knew how to diffuse an impending Sherlock rant in a variety of ways. His most recent tactic: diversion. It rather worked out well for the two of them.

Sherlock's eyes darted from John's mouth to his mischievous blue eyes and back again. He was clearly evaluating John's intentions and what he found left him smirking slightly in anticipation.

The blogger leaned even closer, and Sherlock's tongue involuntarily darted out, licking his lips in expectation. John smiled. He rather liked (all right, all right, he _bloody_ loved) being able to affect Sherlock this way. It was still quite a thrill to be able to so magnificently leave the consulting detective speechless or redirect his attention so thoroughly onto himself.

"Because it will be _fun_," he whispered conspiratorially, voice husky. He closed the distance between them, pressing his mouth against Sherlock's in a long and lingering kiss. The promise of the specific brand of "fun" he intended for them to have while on holiday was heady on his tongue. The consulting detective, cottoning on to John's plans, responded in kind, growling hungrily at the back of his throat. John shuddered. _When Sherlock made that noise, god_…then, abruptly, John pulled back. Sherlock was quite reluctant to let him go (and Sherlock was nothing if not dogged about getting what he wanted). His unwillingness to release John actually made it easier for the blogger to pull him to his feet (although they tottered unsteadily once they were both vertical). John was trying to regain his ability to speak, as Sherlock nipped possessively at his neck. John had his hands firmly on the detective's hips, trying to extract himself, but not quite able (or willing) to do so. "Now," the army doctor said firmly, between kisses. Sherlock elicited a moan when he outlined the hollow of John's ear with his tongue, but the blogger continued valiantly onward, "Ah, go and, hmph, get, ah, ready," _How is that I start out trying to distract him and now he's the one that's got me all—that feels fucking good—distracted._ Sherlock, catching the drift of John's thoughts, or perhaps (very likely) just fervently enjoying himself, smirked like the devil. _Oh bloody hell_, John thought with excitement and dread: he knew what _that_ look meant: trouble. _Really good trouble I expect_. The consulting detective reached for the buckle of John's belt, and John mentally berated himself,"_Sherlock_," he said breathless and stern at once, "they'll be here any moment."

"That is most unfortunate," the consulting detecitve said cheekily, as if Greg and Mycroft could go and take a couples' cruise to the arctic for all he cared. If they hit an iceberg and never returned to trouble him again, so much the better. Sherlock was engaged in more entertaining pursuits presently.

"Sod off," John said smiling cheekily, as he forcibly shoved Sherlock in the direction of their bedroom, "And mind that you don't try to sneak anything."

Sherlock was ominously silent, "The list of things that won't get through security was completely _inane_, John. Honestly, what imbecile doesn't—"

"Sherlock…" John warned, crossing his arms.

Sherlock grumbled something that sounded like "pedantic bureaucrats" and "Mycroft's fault." John smirked.

Five minutes later… "Come on they're here. Sherlock! Hurry up." Sherlock had somehow meandered into the kitchen and gotten himself immersed in some sort of, well, John wasn't quite sure what it was, but it appeared to be a brain, portions of which Sherlock was dissecting. "Come on, seriously, you _cannot_ bring scalpels! Or human tissue," he added when Sherlock seemed to be searching for a container to transport his cross-sections.

"This will only take a moment to arrange," he said, ignoring John, who crossed the room, forcibly removed the sharp objects and oozing flesh from his partner's hands, spun him on his hell and pushed him towards the entranceway, saying, "That is _complete_ bollocks. Stop stalling and let's go."

Sherlock seemed moderately stunned and definitely amused by John's antics. The blogger mumbled under his breath about sabotage. He grabbed his consulting detective, shoving a case into his hand, and ushered him down the stairs to the waiting black car.

"Greg," John nodded, when he climbed inside.

"Mycroft," Sherlock sneered, as he settled beside his blogger with a flourish, taking John's hand.

_And this is off to a beautiful start_.

* * *

_AN:_

_Welcome! Honestly, I do not even know what happened with this. Bickering, Johnlock, some Mystrade on the side. Hope it wasn't too OOC or ridiculous. I promised the boys a holiday (and you lot as well), so here it is. I will sporadically post snippets from said holiday, not necessarily in chronological order as a break from the angst in my other stories, because, hey, we could all do with a holiday. _

_Please, leave a review and let me know what you think, if you'd like me to continue, and/or if you have any requests.  
_


	2. Sunbathing

The sun was warm and bright; casting a lovely shade of red behind John's closed eyelids. It was beautiful, restful, and just lovely. He sighed. A small contented smile curled on his face summoned into being by the perfection of the weather. He was lying on a blanket, on a beach, head pillowed on his hands, face tilted towards the sky. He wiggled his toes in the sand, but kept his eyes closed. The smell of salt, sea, coconut oil, and some sort of exotic flower wafted in the air. He could hear the gentle push and pull of the sea, as it crashed against the shore in a steady rhythm. He could hear the call of birds in the distance. He could hear a persistent sort of buzzing noise, something decidedly un-relaxing and out of place in this idyllic tropical paradise.

"Shut up," he said brightly.

"I haven't _said_ anything," came an affronted voice a scant six inches from his ear.

John's smile broadened significantly, "You were thinking, it's bloody annoying, now shut it."

He heard Sherlock's huff of indignation and he could see clearly in his mind, without actually looking, the annoyed and frustrated expression in those clear eyes, grey today. He felt Sherlock shift next to him, plopping back down into a reclined position as dramatically as he could, forcing a stony silence on the blanket they were sharing.

The corners of John's mouth twitched involuntarily upward. Sherlock radiated tension. John could feel it vibrating in the air, like heat-waves from the beach, though, unlike the heat, Sherlock's sulking could not be dispelled by the cool breeze coming off of the ocean and ruffling the blogger's hair. John was counting in his head. Ignoring Sherlock while he was pouting was a sure way to elicit a response, and that's _exactly_ what John Watson wanted.

Right on cue (two minutes exactly), he felt Sherlock shift next to him, propping himself up on his elbow theatrically, and leaning over John's face. He was so close that John could feel his breath against his cheek, could perceive the penetrating stare, as it scanned his face, like it was a physical sensation. He fixed his features into a relaxed and impassive arrangement, which Sherlock undoubtedly could see right through.

John smirked, still with his eyes closed. Sherlock's head and halo of curls, which had been even crazier than usual in the humid environment (The consulting detective was utterly indifferent to it, but John found it extremely sexy, having Sherlock with a constant state of bedhead) had blocked out the sun.

"Can I, uh, help you with something?" he asked innocently and was rewarded with the long-suffering sigh of a consulting detective without occupation. _Pay attention to me_, the sigh said, _please love me and adore me and pet me and cosset me and give me all of your notice_, it implored._ Immediately would be highly convenient_. _And by immediately, I would suggest this exact second until forever preferably_. John heard it all, but he was honestly having far too much fun to capitulate just yet. "It's just that, you're, ah, blocking the sun, and it's a beautiful day, in case you hadn't noticed?"

He could actually _hear_ Sherlock's nose crinkle with incredulity and disdain. "The _weather_, John? _Really_?"

John smirked, "Well it's quite nice, you know."

"Sarcasm?"

"Only a bit," John said, opening his eyes, to find Sherlock looming an inch from away from his nose. John leaned up pressing his lips to Sherlock's (the consulting detective's were liberally coated in zinc oxide) before going back into his lounging position.

"It wouldn't _actually_ kill you to take a rest, you know?" He meant it as a statement, but it came out a question because, honestly, John wasn't entirely certain that Sherlock _did _know that. It was a slightly disconcerting thought. "We are on a _holiday_, let's enjoy it."

There was a glimpse of genuine fondness in Sherlock's eyes before he narrowed them in suspicion, "It's so _boring_, John. What are we meant to do? Just _sit_ here? Watch the clouds drift by? Count the grains of sand?" he scooped up a handful and let the particles drift between his fingers for emphasis. Clearly, the gesture implied, there could be no more horrible fate in all the world.

"Come on, you're being ridiculous," John encouraged, "if Mycroft can take a day off, you certainly can."

"Ah, _yes_," Sherlock sat up with energy, and John had to suppress a grimace. That maniacal glint in Sherlock's eyes had not been seen since right before they went to Baskerville, "My _brother_. Whisking us all away to this desolate—"

"Tropical," John corrected.

"—Death-trap—"

"Island," he amended once again.

Sherlock chose to ignore John's interjections, "For a supposed 'family holiday,'" the consulting detective deployed the most scathingly critical finger-quotations that John had ever seen and made 'family holiday' seem to be the most inauthentic and questionable notion in the universe, "Highly suspicious," the clear eyes contracted still further, almost to slits of suspicion, "but what _is_ the motivation behind such—"

"All _right_," John had heard enough, he pulled himself into a sitting position with a groan and turned to face his partner, "that's bloody it. We are _not_ going to turn this entire trip into a case, Sherlock. I mean it. We are going to _enjoy_ ourselves if I have to drag you kicking and screaming the whole way."

He evaluated Sherlock now that he was no longer in silhouette. Despite his reproachful tone, John had to smile. He couldn't help it. Sherlock's hair was a veritable bird's nest on top of his head, steadily collecting sand and being blown hither and thither by the steady wind. His aristocratic nose, crunched in annoyance, was pinkening at the tip after only a few moments in the sun. He was not wearing lab clothing, nor his posh suits and too tight shirts. Instead, he had donned loose fitting tan slacks and a white linen button down with its sleeves rolled above the elbows. He was also sporting simple, but expensive looking, brown leather sandals. There were freckles erupting on the alabaster skin, and John was thankful that he was not encountering the lobster red that he had been expecting. _Still there's time_, he corrected, _Sherlock's the most stubborn idiot I've ever had the pleasure to meet_. First things first: Sherlock's shirt was buttoned far too high for John's liking. He reached out with his own newly tanned fingers and began unbuttoning, he saw Sherlock swallow in the column of his neck.

"John, what are you-?"

"Shhh," the blogger admonished, when he had finished to his satisfaction, he briefly rested his hand on Sherlock's chest and continued in the blessed quiet. Physical contact and close proximity often left Sherlock at a loss for words, speechless even. John would _never_ get tired of holding that power. "Have you put on sunblock?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, John took that as a no, and countered by mirroring Sherlock's gesture, "Expected as much," he rummaged through the bag he had brought with him and emerged with the strongest sun protection he could find at Tescos.

"Come here then," he ordered gently, and Sherlock obediently scooted closer to John on the garishly orange blanket upon which they had arranged themselves.

The blogger poured a liberal amount of the substance on his palms and began to rub it into the contours of Sherlock's face, running his fingers over the sharp cheekbones, the proud forehead, the stubborn chin, around his bright eyes. Sherlock didn't protest, instead, he leaned into John's touch, eyes closed, and humming low in his throat. John concluded his ministrations (after pro-longing them for an extra minute or two. Sherlock wasn't the only one who enjoyed this. The noises that he made elicited a very pleasurable responding tug in John's abdomen) by kissing Sherlock gently and ruffling the detective's hair.

"That was most _pleasant_, John," Sherlock admitted with a slight purr in his voice.

John cleared his throat, "Right, yes, now, we're _not_ going to turn this holiday into a murder mystery about your brother."

Sherlock made to interrupt, and John wasn't sure if he was about to sulk about John's decision or actually begin to deduce the situation, listing all the reasons that investigating Mycroft was the _perfect_ way to spend their holiday. In either case, the blogger was not going to allow this get off the rails.

"I should've known you wouldn't be able to sit still," John sighed good-naturedly. _Let's face it_, he admitted to himself, _I'm not that good at it either_, "and that is _exactly_ why we're going to find you a mystery." He bounded to his feet, dusting the sand off the backs of his legs and looking longingly at the blanket, before pulling Sherlock to stand with him.

"_Really_?" the detective looked downright gleeful, the happiest he'd been since they decided to go on this trip.

"_Really_, because you're not going to relax unless you have something to do," he said, "and _I_ am not going to relax until you do. So," he took Sherlock's hand in his and allowed the consulting-detective to tug him purposefully and excitedly in the direction the village, "let's go get into some trouble."

* * *

_AN:_

_Sorry for the delay everyone. This week has been utterly insane. What did you think? I would love it if you could take that time to review! _

_My fic writing schedule will be back on track next week so look for more updates of this starting then.  
_

_Much love._


	3. A Mad Suggestion

The entire endeavor had been Mycroft's suggestion originally. He had (strategically no doubt) sprung it upon Gregory when the DI was at his most vulnerable.

It was quite late and the pair was lying in bed. Greg was drowsing, his head pillowed on Mycroft's chest as the elder Holmes ran his hand meditatively through the DI's hair. It felt quite nice, and Greg was hovering on the very edges of consciousness. The steady movement of Mycroft's fingers lulled him further towards slumber and it only when he had reached that point of somnolent repose that Mycroft spoke.

"We could _all_ do with a holiday Gregory," he said quietly. It took a few moments for Greg to register the words as anything other than a jarring sound dragging him back towards wakefulness.

"Hmph?" he inquired, his face pressed against Mycroft's bare chest.

His partner sighed, partly with affection and partly with exasperation, "I _said _that we should take a _holiday_. Somewhere tropical—"

"Brilliant," Greg murmured, still half-asleep. His words were punctuated by a large yawn. He nuzzled his nose sleepily against Mycroft's shoulder, "You know how to spoil a bloke, My."

"—Yes, I think this is _exactly_ what we _all_ need," Mycroft continued.

Greg's eyes popped open of their own volition. Considering how completely exhausted he was, he was certain that some principle law of physics had just been defied by this movement. He suddenly felt far too awake, or else dreaming, one or the other. He blinked several times before speaking.

"My?' he mumbled with his face still pressed to Mycroft's skin, "Who's 'we all.' You said, 'we all.'"

"Yes, I am _aware_ of having said that," Mycroft asserted, as if the very idea of Mycroft Holmes making any statement without careful calculation was impossible, "I was _referring_ to John and Sherlock, of course."

This conversation was going to require that Greg reposition himself. God, he did not want to move. He sighed heavily, his body protesting as he propped himself up onto his elbows, leaning over Mycroft's face, blinking owlishly, "I'm sorry, I think I must've mishear that last bit," Mycroft watched Greg's shifting expressions with, well, it wasn't _quite_ malice, but he seemed to have some sort of mischievous and ill-intentioned gleam in his eyes. "Did you just tell me that you want to take a _holiday_ with Sherlock and John?"

"_Yes_, Gregory-" Mycroft smiled and kissed Greg soundly, as if proud that the DI had caught on so quickly. Greg was so stunned by what he assumed must be Mycroft's sudden descent into madness that he didn't respond at all. The DI felt his left eye beginning to twitch.

"-And a positively _lovely_ holiday it shall be," Mycroft continued, "One big _happy_ family," he was either ignoring or oblivious to Greg's apparent distress. Greg supposed that the former was far more likely, but his brain was caught on Mycroft's final pronouncement-and it was a pronouncement. The DI was unsure if it was meant to be sarcastic or entirely too serious, but the implication seemed to be that the four of them _would_ function as a "one big happy family" or face the dire consequences of Mycroft's wrath.

Whilst his partner settled back upon his pillows, preparing for bed, typing something on his mobile, Greg stared on in continued disbelief. He was quite positive that Mycroft had finally gone round the twist. That was the only reasonable explanation for his sudden and, quite frankly, insane belief that taking the four of them off together for a holiday would be a _good_ idea.

Greg was the one in this family who planned things. Okay, that wasn't _entirely_ fair. _Mycroft_ was the one who planned things. The man ran the government; he was rather scrupulous about details. It was one of his most prominent features. But Greg was the person who _instigated_ familial activities. Holidays, birthdays, the infamous "family dinners," Greg was responsible for getting Sherlock and Mycroft into one room (which had been decorated according to his partner's tastes) and keeping them from murdering one another (which involved hiding any and all sharp objects; he learned that particular lesson the hard way). Mycroft indulged him in this (even though he firmly believed that it was optimistic to the point of foolishness), and Sherlock came grudgingly (out of a sense of loyalty and obligation towards Greg, and thinly veiled disdain for his brother). John had recently become part of their "traditions" (both Holmeses rolled their eyes at that moniker), watching and participating with various degrees of amusement, vexation, and spirit.

Greg had had experienced a wide array of successes and failures over the years as far as such things went. When you got the Holmes brothers together in one room, you never could conclusively predict what you were in for. There had been a particularly peaceable celebration of Greg's birthday last year, and then there had been the nearly apocalyptic celebration of Easter three years after Greg and Mycroft had become a couple (suffice it to say that the evening had ended with a serrated knife embedded to the hilt in the dining room table and a priceless antique vase smashed, leaving porcelain splinters scattered liberally in everyone's hair and all across the flat). The most recent event had been the _memorable_ celebration of Sherlock and Mycroft's mother's birthday, to which both brothers, John, and Greg had been invited…they had all survived…barely.

This is all to say that if _anyone_ were going to suggest that the four of them holiday together, it would be Greg. And Gregory Lestrade had _never_, even momentarily, entertained the notion of doing so. Not for a second. He was not foolish enough to believe that that particular situation that could result in anything besides craziness, violence, and the type of emotional, psychological, and verbal wounds from which it was not easy to recover. He had read _Lord of the Flies_ and interacted extensively with Sherlock and Mycroft, and the result was a firm belief that placing the two of them together on an island would be catastrophic (he was visited by the momentary vision of the two of them chasing one another through the jungle with sharpened sticks). Greg shuddered. This trip was an outlandish decision. It was a social experiment of the most diabolical and detrimental order. The nightmarish possibilities ran through the DI's mind in horrific detail.

Greg was developing a headache, his eye was still twitching, and he became conscious of the fact that he was still looming over Mycroft in the exact same position, peering intently into his partner's face. The elder Holmes was most astutely ignoring Greg in favor of some vicious typing (he had an expression on his face that suggested that _someone_ was about to receive very harsh judgment from on high). Greg just couldn't quite figure out why Mycroft would _want_ to take the four of them away together for an—thus far—unspecified period of time to an—thus far—undisclosed location, unless it was to murder his brother. He sincerely hoped that they were rather past all that; however, Sherlock had caused a sharp increase in everyone's stress levels over the past few months (or years, depending upon your perspective).

Mycroft seemed to recognize Greg's anguish, because, though he didn't look up from his mobile, he did reach over with his free hand to pat Greg consolingly on his shoulder.

"It will be all right, Gregory, now do get some sleep, yes?" he said not unkindly.

Greg continued gazing speculatively, suspicion creasing his eyes even as he nodded his assent.

"You have not moved," Mycroft admonished gently after a moment. He clearly suspected that Greg was half-asleep and therefore not in full possession of his mental faculties, unaware of the fact that Greg was having some sort of internal crisis.

Nevertheless, the DI sighed, settling back down again. They could have this conversation tomorrow morning. Maybe all the recent familial drama had led Mycroft to behave magnanimously or insanely or insanely magnanimously. The British government would revoke this suggestion in the light of day, Greg was certain. Even as he reached this somewhat reassuring conclusion, Mycroft's lips curled into a smirk.

"No, I won't, Gregory, but we will discuss it over _breakfast_," he kissed the top of Greg's head, and the DI gave Mycroft's middle a reassuring squeeze, "_Goodnight_."

"Night," Greg rumbled.

The following morning, Greg was calmly drinking his coffee when Mycroft swooped into the kitchen, fully dressed and smiling brightly.

"Morning," Greg said still a bit groggy.

"Good morning, _indeed_," Mycroft kissed Greg and sat opposite him with a cup of tea and a copy of the morning's paper. He seemed positively _chipper_, and Greg was disconcerted. He was startled to notice that Mycroft might be _humming_, "The arrangements have all been made."

Greg almost choked on a bite of his toast, "For the holiday?" he sputtered.

"Yes, of course."

"Are you _really_ sure that you-," Greg began, but when confronted with Mycroft's fervent enthusiasm and maniacal glare, he relented, "You know what?" He threw his hands up in surrender, "Never mind. Whatever you want."

Mycroft's burgeoning zealotry was clear in his wide smile, and Greg braced himself for the coming onslaught.

Mycroft began his preparations in earnest. The most difficult component would be convincing all parties to attend. Talking John and Sherlock into the proposal was difficult (as both Greg and Mycroft suspected it would be). To be fair, John initially thought that the proposition was a fabulous joke. When he realized that, no, Mycroft wasn't kidding, he grew increasingly suspicious. An excruciatingly long conversation with Greg, (no, he didn't know what prompted it. Yes, he was concerned about Mycroft's sanity. Yes, he recognized the risks of putting Sherlock and Mycroft in such close proximity for an extended period of time. "Honestly though, John, I think he's pretty damn serious. He seems, er, _excited_. He's like a bloody kid in a candy shop…Yeah, I'm aware that that could be dangerous") left him agreeing. Like Greg, John understood that it was either go along with the plan or be kidnapped and dragged along against his will. At least this way, he could prepare himself for the inevitable. Besides, as John said when he sighed, finally giving in, "they all deserved a bit of a break after all."

Sherlock on the other hand, as anticipated, was much more difficult to sway. He had been positively scandalized by the suggestion. He spent the better part of ten minutes consumed with scornful laughter. After Greg and John managed to assure him that, yes, they were entirely serious, or, at least, Mycroft was, Sherlock turned resentful, quickly followed by highly suspicious and curmudgeonly. Greg and John had both found themselves in the almost impossible position of convincing the consulting detective that this was not one of Mycroft's "tricks," neither one of them entirely sure that they were telling the truth.

Mycroft told his younger brother to stop behaving like a child. Greg had expected more vitriol, but the British government was downright cheerful when he informed Sherlock that he would be joining them on their holiday. He waltzed out of the room before his brother could even formulate a response, and Greg and John had been left to take the brunt of the abuse. Well, John was; the DI promptly left the blogger to do whatever it was that he did to placate, subdue, and otherwise bribe Sherlock. Seemingly, he was successful ("As I _knew_ he would be," Mycroft maintained, while Greg glowered on in suspicious consternation) because a week later all four were on a private jet together.

Greg later gave John full credit for making sure that the arrived at their destination in one piece. It was Mycroft's plane (the government's, but who's really counting?), yet it was John's surreptitious slipping of some kind of sedative into Sherlock's tea that allowed for a relatively peaceful flight.

Greg raised his eyebrows at the army doctor after Sherlock had drifted off, face pressed against the window pane, snoring softly. John checked Sherlock's pulse, and winked at Greg and Mycroft, as he settled back into his chair.

"Far be it from me to complain, but is that entirely _ethical_, Dr. Watson?" Mycroft queried sipping his, drug-free, tea.

John smiled grimly and muttered something about "fair's fair" and "Baskerville." Greg, normally against turning people into science experiments and unwitting victims (having had far too much experience in those roles), had a sudden sharp memory of that damned hollow and decided that Sherlock was getting off easy with a nap.

"So what's for lunch?" he said instead. John laughed, Sherlock snored, and Mycroft summoned over their inflight menu.

Several hours later they arrived under the cover of darkness. Considering that Mycroft had been the one to organize this trip, the slightly covert element of their comings and goings surprised absolutely no one.

John made a joke about "foreign invasions" making a really bad start to any holiday.

"Your mum's not going to be pleased that you arranged the hostile takeover of an island nation instead of taking a proper rest," he joked, deadpan, "She called to check up on you not two days ago."

Scandalized, Mycroft glared at John through narrowed eyes. The blogger ignored the elder Holmes' ire. Instead, he worked towards shifting an extremely drowsy and discombobulated Sherlock into a standing position until the detective was leaning very heavily on John, swaying woozily. Sherlock would certainly have had several things to say to Mycroft on the topic of international warfare and their mother if he had been fit to do anything other than mumble something incoherently to John. Whatever he said caused the blogger to laugh sharply and nearly drop the consulting detective. Mycroft looked as if he was beginning to doubt the wisdom of this entire venture. Greg resisted the urge to say "I told you so," elbowing his partner playfully, taking out his camera, and snapping a photo of the blogger and the consulting detective.

The flash caused Sherlock to blink rapidly, mouth agape. Mycroft and John turned quickly to glare at the DI.

"What?" Greg said with a genuine smile, his tone was mock defensive, but he felt completely at ease, the first time he'd felt so relaxed in…well, years probably, "I'm going to document this," he waved his camera with a roguish smirk, "There is at least a photo album coming out of this mess."

Everyone stood in silence. Then Mycroft began to chuckle, his laughter turned fairly hysterical as he clutched the back of his chair for support. John grinned, Sherlock grumbled incoherently, and Greg snapped another picture before going over to help John navigate Sherlock off the plane.

As they disembarked, Greg felt a strange elated sense of optimism, which only increased when Mycroft placed his hand in the small of Greg's back, that this holiday might not have been the worst idea after all. Mycroft smirked knowingly in response.

* * *

_My Dearest Readers, I would just like to apologize for my extended absence. I was unfortunately detained by the twin miseries of health problems and family troubles. Real life was not a fun place for me. That being said, I am back now and I'm am going to gradually start developing a more regular writing and posting schedule again. Thank you so much for sticking with me through my hiatus and thank you for taking the time to read this chapter. Please, leave a review if you get the chance, let me know if I'm still a bit off my game. Much love, Nic._


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